


Birds of a Feather

by firefright, Skalidra



Series: The Weight of Wings [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Gen, Hell, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 00:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: A shooting star in Hell's sky can only ever mean one thing, and there's no way Slade is going to stand back and let another Fallen Angel be ripped apart and enslaved by its demonic denizens. Bringing the boy - Jason - back to his sanctuary is easy. Getting him to accept his new status and find the will to live through it, on the other hand... That's a whole other conflict.





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, this is a prequel fic to our JayRoy work, Fallen for You, exploring the circumstances of Jason's fall and what happened immediately after. Hope you enjoy!

Slade sees the impact from leagues away, beginning with a white hot streak of light — red at the edges — plunging through Hell’s sky, and then ending in a great plume of rising dust. 

Immediately, he rises to his feet, leaving the confines of his sanctuary to spread his wings out behind him. There’s only one possible thing that could cause such a disturbance on this plane, and he will not have been the only person to witness that arrival. Just as surely as he is, others will be heading there now. Demons and spirits with far crueler intentions than his own. If Slade’s not quick enough, Hell’s newest damned soul will find their feathers plucked before they even have a chance to come to terms with what it is that’s happened to them.

He damn well better be quick enough.

With powerful beats of his wings, Slade flies across the Fields of Suffering, heading for the very outskirts of Hell. The place where the Almighty sends all his servants once he’s done with them, thrown down and tossed aside like so much garbage.

Imps and lesser demons cower under his shadow as he sweeps over them, while some of the lost souls they torture — believing they see an angel above them — cry out desperately for help. Slade ignores all of them, remaining singularly focused on his target.

What would be a journey of days for others takes him only minutes. Arriving at the edge of the crater the newborn Fallen has made, Slade drops down to the ground with a last flare of his wings, tucking them away again as soon as he touches the hard-packed dirt. Good, he thinks after a quick glance around the area, it looks like he’s the first person here of any note.

A few scavengers skitter out of his path as Slade makes his way down into the crater, towards the broken figure huddled at its center. As he draws closer, the smell of smoke and burnt air becomes stronger. Scattered feathers drift through the air, slowly tarnishing from white to black. It’s never quick, and always painful, as if being banished from the ‘paradise’ they were born to wasn’t punishment enough. They have to suffer every step of the way down too.

The closer Slade gets, the more the boy’s wings cocoon around his body, managing to obscure everything but a crop of dark hair and his chosen gender from sight. He’s shaking, and even above the howl of the wind there’s an audible sobbing coming from underneath that shield of darkening feathers.

“Get up,” Slade says, not unkindly.

No response. Not that he expected one so quickly, anyway. With another step, he moves closer, speaking loud enough that he knows the grieving boy will have no choice but to hear him.

“I said, get up.” He gets a wary flash of an eye, caught somewhere blue and green staring up at him. The air crackles with uncontrolled power, but it’s weak. Whatever small reserves the kid has left in him rising in defence. Slade refrains from rolling his eye at it; a just fledged cherub would be more of a threat. 

“You’re in Hell now, boy,” he continues. “You know that, don’t you? Every demon and devil here will have marked your arrival from the moment you broke the atmosphere, and a newborn Fallen is a desirable prize for any of them. So if you don’t want to spend the rest of eternity being tortured or enslaved, you’ll do as I say. Get up. _Now._ ”

“Who are you?” is the initial, croaked reply, and Slade nods approval at the lack of blind trust displayed therein, even if the boy should be able to sense that he isn’t a native denizen of this place either. 

“Someone who’s also been exactly where you are now,” he answers succinctly.

The wings shift back, allowing room for the boy as he sits up, still violently shaking. He’s pretty, pale skinned and with a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, but Slade isn’t surprised by that; angels are never born ugly. “What do you want from me?” he asks.

Slade snorts, “I think I’ve already been quite clear about that.” Stepping forward, he reaches down to grip the boy’s bicep and pull him to his feet. There’s little resistance, which is good. Fighting the boy, even weak as he is, would waste time they don’t have at the moment. “Think you can fly?”

The kid tries to test his wings, only for his face to go ghost white from pain at the smallest stretch of them. He shakes his head.

Slade isn’t surprised. “Put them away then,” he orders, “I’ll carry you.”

“Wait…” the kid tugs back against his hold as Slade tries to draw him closer. “You.. you still haven’t explained anything to me. Who _are_ you? Where are you taking me?”

Deciding a minute wasted to answer two questions now will save more time in the long run, Slade sighs and answers. “My name is Slade. I was once an angel, like you, before I was thrown out of Heaven two centuries ago. As to where I’m taking you, somewhere safe is the short answer.”

The kid’s eyes go wider, “You’re—”

Slade’s pleased to know that his name hasn’t been entirely forgotten up above, even by the younger ones. “Yes,” he cuts the boy off before he can get further into it, “Now, no more talking. Come on.”

Flaring his own wings back out again, he hauls the boy against him before taking off into the sky. There’s no further protest. Indeed, the kid actually hangs onto his shirt, quivering like a fledgling the whole ride after tucking away his wings. Since it makes his task easier, Slade allows it, focused as he is on making it within the safe boundaries of his sanctuary as quickly as possible. It’s better than the boy looking down at any rate, as even for the most staunch of angels a glimpse of Hell can be distressing without measure. _Especially_ to one that’s just lost everything they ever knew.

Reaching home in record time, the barriers part like water before him, and close just as easily once they’re through. Slade lands with his burden upon the small patch of home he has carved for himself in these wretched lands, a house won through blood and war, and without any prior warning, unceremoniously lets go of the boy.

Not expecting it, he crumples to the ground at once. No cry of pain follows the boy this time, but only because he bites down against it, clenching his hands into fists on the floor. Perhaps a sign that anger is already starting to take over from grief.

The sooner the better, so far as Slade is concerned. Grief only weighs you down, anger on the other hand…

“What’s your name, boy?” he asks, moving across the room to pick up the jug of water he keeps ready there and fill a cup with it. The water is sourced from the mortal plane, without the poison intrinsic to Hell in it, and while angels don’t necessarily require food or water to live, there’s no doubting it can still feel good to consume. At the very least, it will give the kid something else to focus on.

“Jason.” is the weakly spoken answer. Slade turns to see the boy, Jason now as he knows him, casting his eyes warily around the chamber. Examining it even as he sits back, threatening to curl in on himself once more.

Slade holds the cup out to him. “Here.”

Jason doesn’t take it. “I fell...” he says instead.

“Yes.” Slade replies, watching him carefully.

“I fell. I… why?” Jason looks back at him, the lost gaze of a child. “Why did I…”

“You know.” 

The boy hangs his head.

Slade sighs, then sitting, sets the cup on the floor in front of him. “Tell me.” he says.

He’s less interested in the actual details of Jason’s crime than he is in doing what is necessary to break him free of the state of shock he’s landed in. Talking is the first step, and if that doesn’t work it’s no matter, he can think of a few other tactics to try. Not least a sharp rap on the head.

But even with all his vast experience, the boy’s answer still causes Slade’s eyebrows to lift.

“I destroyed a soul.” 

“Really,” he says, more surprised than sceptical, “And what did the soul do to deserve that?”

Jason’s eyelids shutter down to half-mast. The twist of his lips turns from raw mourning to bitter and rageful in an instant, and _ah_ , Slade knows this one’s sin as surely as he knows his own. 

“What didn’t it do.” he hisses harshly, the very spark Slade was searching for flaring up in him as the next words come hard and fast. “It wasn’t a human, it was a monster! A murderer, it killed and tortured hundreds for nothing more than _fun_. When… when it finally died there were children… so many…” Jason’s lips twist up into a snarl any demon would be proud of, “A soul like that doesn’t deserve any kind of afterlife, not even Hell.”

"So you wiped it out of existence."

"It deserved it," Jason argues, gaze turning upwards to meet his own. "That _thing_ couldn't ever get released on the world again, no matter what. I did the right thing! I— I…” The rage bleeds away from Jason's expression, and Slade watches the pain return on the heels of realization. "I failed my test. I've… What have I _done?_ "

"Sinned," he says bluntly, taking a sip of the water since Jason apparently has no interest in it. It's cool on his tongue; a minor pleasure against the harshness of the air. "Unforgivably, according to the powers above. You'll have to decide if you can live with that; if you can't, the sooner you figure that out the sooner I can stop wasting my time."

Slade leaves the water there but gets back to his feet, heading for the drawers that make up what may as well be called a kitchen. It isn't as though he cares to cook, so why bother with all the rest of it? A few shelves and cupboards to store what small things he cares for is plenty. In this case, a small carton of high-grade cigarettes that he's become fond of having, on occasion. It never fails to amuse Slade, the ways that humans find to kill themselves when they have so little time to begin with.

"Live with it?" Jason echoes, as Slade lights the chemical stick with a precise flare of his power, twisted towards heat and flame.

"Mm," he confirms, drawing a breath of the smoke and feeling, in little pinprick sensation, every microscopic bit of damage it causes and the resultant reaction of his strength to heal it. He leans against the cupboards, letting it back out of his lungs as he enjoys the last bits of that sensation. "You have choice, kid. That's the point. If you can't live with what you've done, then don't. I'd recommend your own hand over anyone else's, though; demons tend to like the slow kill, if they actually kill you at all. Then again, if it's the punishment you're after…”

"Suicide?"

Slade meets that horror-tinged expression evenly, lifting an eyebrow. "If you don't want to live, sure. Don't be so shocked, kid; sin doesn't matter to our kind. There's no afterlife for beings like us, remember? No one's going to judge us when we die, and no one’s going to care how it happened." The little angel shakes his head, denial written in his expression and the curl of his hands to fists. Well, at least that's a step past shock, even if it's no more helpful to Slade's intentions.

He considers for a moment. Then, as Jason mumbles a, "No," that sounds like it could start to gain in volume if it gets repeated, Slade decides that verbal approaches are overrated anyway.

A pinch of his fingers extinguishes the cigarette, and in the same moment he lunges across the room. Jason’s got the reaction time to respond, jerking halfway to his feet and bringing both arms up, but not the strength for it to matter. Slade closes fingers around his throat, letting his wings flare wide as he drags the kid high enough to meet his eyes evenly, feet hanging a few inches off the ground. Fingers dig into the pressure points of his wrist, and the kid kicks out at his stomach with a practiced twist of his waist and two powerful heels. Slade lets all of it bounce right off, narrowing the eye he’s got left and tightening his fingers _just_ enough.

Jason chokes. Kicks out again and presses harder into his wrist.

“Wings!” Slade commands, pulling the whip-sharp _snap_ of a tone from old memory.

The immediate reaction is literally built in, but Slade’s more sickened than pleased to see the kid’s wings burst out behind him, scattering ragged, molting feathers all over his floor. He looks shocked to have obeyed, jerks against Slade’s grip and gives a gasping, protesting sound as pain creeps in around the edges of his face and his wings slump to drag against the floor. Still, he makes no move to put them away again; the lingering effect of that command will be branded against the inside of his skull like a tattoo for the next minute or so.

Heaven’s always made its little warriors obedient.

He drops the kid, letting him stagger for half a second — long enough for wide eyes to rise to him — before he snaps, “ _Knees_ ,” and Jason drops to them with a heavy thunk.

“What…?” The kid swallows, staring up at him, wings trembling. “What are you doing?”

Slade crosses his arms, arching an eyebrow. “Always thought you were just quick to obey, didn’t you? Not the truth of it, kid. Any lower angel can be ordered to obedience by one they recognize as a superior, if they know just the right notes to hit.” The kid shudders, looking down at his own legs with a kind of horror, and Slade scoffs. “I wouldn’t go near Lucifer, by the way. If you snap to my voice, his will take you over completely.”

The kid scowls up at him, even though his eyes are still wide and the expression shakes as much as his wings. “Stop it. Let me go!”

“No, not yet.”

Slade crosses the distance between them with a couple strides, reaching out to grab the top of one of Jason’s wings and pull it high. The kid yelps, the limb shuddering against his hold as he pulls it open and straight. There are still patches of white on some of the feathers, but one or two of those feathers drifts loose with every breath, replaced by a quick-growing spread of new, black feathers that turn all light away from them. They’ll hurt for another day or so — Slade remembers that with sharp clarity — but with another half an hour or so there won’t be anything but black left to the kid’s coloring.

“ _Look_ , kid,” he demands, pulling hard enough at the wing to pitch Jason forward a few inches. He has to catch himself with a hand, which stops the useless shoving at Slade’s grip for at least a moment. “I’m not interested in waiting out this whole panic, so you’re going to shut your damned mouth and snap to or I will _make_ you, clear?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just pulls not-particularly-gently at the wing again and repeats, “Now _look_.”

For a moment it looks like he just might have to force the kid after all, but then his head turns just enough to look at the wing Slade’s holding open. It’s reluctant, but good enough.

Slade eases his grip just a bit in minor reward, but keeps the wing aloft. “This is what you are, kid. Blackened; damned. I know that’s hard to accept, but you have not got the time to be wasting on denial. You need to get yourself together and make your choice, and I’d suggest you do it before I run out of patience.”

There's a spark to the kid's gaze as it lifts back to him, a pull of the wing against his hand that's less fear and more anger as the hand braced against the ground curls into a fist.

"Or what?"

The snort he gives as answer is completely deserved, as far as he's concerned. "Or you leave my territory and become the personal plaything of some demon. Not a threat, kid, just a fact.” He releases the wing with a flick of his hand, letting it droop back to the floor as the kid tries and fails to hide the pain the movement causes him. “You’re as weak as a child right now; more or less any piece of shit out there could bowl you over and take you for themselves. Or sell you to something bigger and nastier.”

“I wouldn’t—” 

“Have any say in it,” Slade finishes, and then he sinks down to a crouch in front of the kid, tilting his head to study him. Fear, horror, and anger that makes his sin as plain as day; he’s an open book. “You’re _weak_ ; you and I both know it. Your power? All that grace and strength in you? It’s souring. The wings are the most obvious cue, but all that power is coming back in as curdled and damned as you are, and it’s going to take _weeks_ to realign itself. I’m not keeping a suicidal, moping, shivering little angel in my house for that long, so if I’m sheltering you, you damn well better be something else. Am I clear, boy?”

Jason’s teeth grit tight. “I don’t need your help.”

Slade scoffs, and considers — just for a moment — hitting the kid to prove him wrong. But as satisfying as it would be, it probably wouldn’t be all too effective. “Then feel free to leave,” he says instead, pushing back to his feet to stand over the kid. “It’s your choice; I’ll give you a few hours to make it.”

Without another word, or sparing Jason a second glance, Slade turns to follow through on that promise. There’s a whole complex of rooms in his keep beyond this one, and he really does have better things to do that wait on Jason to finish making up his mind on whether he wants to live or not.

For the kid’s sake, he hopes he does. But even if he doesn’t, at least Slade will have stopped him from becoming some demon’s plaything. The kid may have broken Heaven’s rule, but so far as he’s concerned, his ‘crime’ certainly doesn’t warrant that kind of fate. Not that the Almighty above gives a fuck.

Slade busies himself with checking the wards around his home, making sure they’ll stand up to any testing that may come their way tonight. Most know by now to leave him alone, but the boy will be a tempting target some may not be able to resist. Better to be safe than have to deal with an annoying incursion from some upstart imp later.

After that, he retires to his study, reading to while away an hour or two before he decides, finally, to go to bed. Sleeping isn’t strictly necessary for his kind, but it’s enjoyable to them the same way it is to mortals, and when injuries or ills are took, can help them heal all the quicker.

The sleep being little more than enjoyable with his current strength, however, means it's also light. So when the boundaries of the room are crossed, Slade wakes instantly. 

Careful not to give away any sign that he’s aware of the intrusion, Slade remains lying perfectly still. The footsteps across the floor are light, almost silent. Almost, not quite. And when the rustle of feathers precedes the creak of the mattress dipping lower under another’s weight, he relaxes instantly, knowing who the culprit is.

Slade always lets his wings out when he sleeps, and it’s to those that Jason now gravitates. Gingerly brushing his fingers over the tips of Slade’s feathers before moving to try and slip under the weight of them.

It’s a behaviour he knows well, and rather than continue to endure the clumsy attempts at stealth, Slade simply sighs and lifts his wing up in open invitation. “Come on, then.”

In other circumstances, he imagines Jason wouldn’t be so quick to accept. But wounded, in both body and soul, doubtlessly missing his flock and the familiarity of home, he doesn’t hesitate, slipping in to curl in close to him. As soon as he’s settled, Slade allows his wing to drop down and half-fold around the boy like a blanket, sheltering him from the world. The boy’s big, but he curls small and Slade’s always been tall even for an angel, so he’s all but covered by the length of the wing. Safe, at least in one small way.

This is how they all sleep in Heaven, Slade remembers. Curled close to each other, wings and arms and legs entwined, very rarely alone.

How ridiculous. The kid isn’t stupid enough to be wrapping around him, at least.

“You try anything and I’m going to be supremely irritated,” he offers as a grumbled warning, though he doesn’t sense any threat from the kid. Besides, Slade would have felt the ward on his vault break if the kid had gone for any of his weapons, and as it stands he doesn’t have enough strength to make a difference without one.

Instead of any reassurance, the only thing that comes from Jason is a quiet, “Why are you doing this?”

Slade could pretend that he thinks it’s something about the sleeping arrangement, but he doesn’t quite feel like it. Instead he huffs and asks, “Would you have preferred to be enslaved by some demon?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Slade rolls his eye, even though it’s still firmly closed. “You’ve never heard the human expression, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’?”

Jason shifts, feathers sliding against his own. It’s not entirely unpleasant, even if he isn’t fond of the idea of the kid squirming all night. Maybe he could pin him, hold him still. The kid on his stomach, maybe? If he could get him to put the wings away, maybe back-to-chest… Be easy enough to hold him still that way.

Before he can do it, Jason says, “It’s too much of a risk to not know.”

Well, alright. Slade supposes that’s fair enough.

He grunts a concession, opening his eye and lifting his wing just far enough that he can look down and meet the kid’s gaze. Wary, definitely. “It’s not free, kid. It’s a favor. If you live, someday you’ll owe me one back.”

The kid’s eyes narrow. “What kind of favor?”

“Don’t know,” he answers flippantly. “Don’t want anything from you yet except to be quiet and stop moving.”

Jason huffs, his feathers fluffing up under Slade’s like an indignant chick. “What did they kick you out of Heaven for?” he mutters, “Being an ass?”

Slade snorts, rolling his eye before dropping his wing back down on top of him. “Just go to sleep, kid, before I change my mind.”

Thankfully this time Jason heeds his words, shutting up and — after another second or two of adjusting — settling down and staying still.

A minute later, once he’s sure the kid is actually going to sleep, Slade closes his eye and follows suit. It seems like Jason has decided to live after all, and in the morning he’ll need to make some further decisions on just how much help he’s willing to give, but for now…

For now, this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [Skalidra's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Firefright's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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